


Heavy, California

by armyofskanks



Series: five years without rain [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: College/University, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, It's a Story About Love, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Language, One Very Lewd Joke, Relationship Study, Slice of Life, brief suggestive content, this is not a love story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 20:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15803877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armyofskanks/pseuds/armyofskanks
Summary: In which Semi says “I love you” and it takes Shirabu one year, five months to say it back.





	Heavy, California

**Author's Note:**

> send me out to greener pastures bc this fic took everything out of me
> 
> disclaimers:  
> (1) this story picks up right after twenty-two (so 6 mo. into their relationship). you **do not** need to read twenty-two or swimming in the flood to understand this  
>  (2) like all my fics, this is unbeta’d writing. i’ve read over it, but I’m sure I missed any number of typos.

“Are you coming to bed, Kenjirou?”

“In a moment,” Shirabu calls from the bathroom. The mask he’s wearing needs to be left on for three more minutes. Given how much he paid for it, he’s not going to let a single drop go to waste.

“You’re using that snail slime shit again, aren’t you,” Semi says, appearing in the doorframe. “Turn around, let me see your goopy face.”

Shirabu obliges, if only so he can look at Semi while he wrecks him. “For your information this ‘snail slime shit’ helps keep me beautiful. But I’m not surprised you don’t understand,” he says with a smirk. “Ugly people don’t have beauty routines.”

Instead of fighting back, Semi cages him against the vanity, leaning in close so he can speak up against Shirabu’s ear. “How interesting,” he drawls. “You didn’t seem to think I was so ugly last night.”

“Ugh, don’t try to seduce when I have _slime_ on my face,” Shirabu groans, rolling his eyes.

“Would you rather it be something else?”

Shirabu’s eyes widen at the suggestion. “Get the fuck out!”

Two and a half minutes later, he comes to bed, arms crossed, maintaining feigned annoyance at Semi’s lewdness. Thirty seconds after that, he’s cooing contentedly against Semi's chest, while he traces patterns across his back.  

Holding a grudge, real or fake, is a futile effort.

They lay quietly for a while, with Semi resting his eyes, and Shirabu reading news articles on his tablet. These are the moments he likes the most; the world is calm, like the perfectly placid surface of a lake.

“Hey,” Semi says, interrupting the peace.

Shirabu doesn’t mind. He never minds.

“Hey what,” he replies playfully, setting the tablet flat in his lap.

“I love you.” Semi flips onto his side, propping up onto his elbow. Even in the dim light, Shirabu can tell he’s staring up at him.

The gaze is familiar; he’s waiting, expectant.

**____________________**

The first time Semi says “I love you,” it’s on Shirabu’s twenty-second birthday. He can still picture it vividly in his mind’s eye: a flock of birds flies west towards the sunset, cool water laps at their ankles, and the air is thick and heavy with the scent and sounds of spring. Semi turns to him, the world narrows, and then—

Shirabu has an epiphany.

It isn’t dramatic like watching a black-and-white world turn to color, or striking a match in a cavern. It’s subtle, like biting into a juicy peach or drinking a cold glass of water on a hot day. The small satisfactions that leave one thinking “ _ah, that’s_ just _what I needed._ ”

The words satiate desires that he didn’t know he had, that he didn’t believe he was capable of having. When Semi says ‘I love you,’ Shirabu feels a sense of completeness, in a way that he could never achieve by himself.

When midnight rolls around, Semi has said those three little words countless times. Shirabu is unabashedly desperate, begging for more in a way that should be frightening. But Semi obliges because of who he is: patient, understanding, and a sucker for romance. His fervor never wavers, never dies, even as the evening gives way to the small hours.  

By morning, as they’re packing to leave, Shirabu still hasn’t said them back.

And in the moment, it doesn’t matter. He’s got cautious optimism on his side. _Soon_ , he thinks, _I’ll say it in no time._ After all, he thinks loves Semi, and if that’s the case, how hard can it be?

Nearly impossible, it turns out. It’s hard to articulate your thoughts when they keep getting caught behind your teeth. Days pass, then weeks.

Shirabu takes his finals.

Semi graduates.

Late-spring gives way to summer.

The world doesn’t slow down for love. Time’s arrow trudges ever forward.

☼☼☼

“Which tie should I wear, the purple paisley or the red with music notes?” Semi holds up both options for Shirabu to choose.

Before he can even open his mouth, Semi butts in again.

“And ‘neither, they’re both hideous’ is not an option, Kenjirou.”

Shirabu huffs. “Prefacing this decision with the fact that it’s being made under _duress_ , I’d go with the paisley.”

“State your reasoning.”

“Might as well go all out with your awful fashion sense, let them know what they’re buying into.”

Semi snorts, but doesn’t comment further. He’s nervous—and he has every right to be. In half an hour he’ll be attending his final interview with a prominent international architecture firm. Just a month ago, he was nearly sick with worry about finding work. Today, he’s on the precipice of getting his dream job. All he has to do is impress the principals at a casual (not-so-casual) lunch.

So, despite the fact that he completely disagrees with every aspect of Semi’s outfit choice, Shirabu helps straighten the hideous tie so it’s crisp and even and smooths down the front of his hair.

He’ll do anything he can to help Semi succeed. Who wouldn’t want that for someone they care deeply about?

“You’re the most qualified person for the job, Eita. You’ve worked your ass off for this,” Shirabu says, allowing his hands to rest on Semi’s chest.

He nods, covering Shirabu’s hands with his own. “I’ll text you as soon as it’s over. Do you think you’ll be here for a while?”

“Probably until afternoon practice, if that’s ok. I wanted to get some homework done, and Yahaba and Kyoutani are having some sort of fuck-a-thon.”

“Of course, you know you’re always welcome,” Semi says, kissing him on the forehead. “Alright, I’m headed out. Wish me luck!”

Luck is flimsy, inferior to the tangibility of hard work. And while Semi may not have been able to out-work Shirabu in high school, he’s grown to be an unstoppable force in college.

“You don’t need luck, Eita,” Shirabu says.

Semi smiles at that, the first genuine, crooked, smile Shirabu has seen all day. “I love you.”

“You better hurry, or you’ll be late,” Shirabu observes. It’s not the response he was hoping for, but it never seems to be these days.

And with a final wave, Semi is out the door, leaving him alone to mourn words unsaid.

☼☼☼

“Do you like this,” Semi purrs, fluttering his lashes against the sensitive skin of Shirabu’s neck.

He squirms in Semi’s grip, kicking at the sheets already crumpled at the edge of the bed. “I don’t think it’s having the effect you intended,” he pants, breathless from stifling giggles.

“Oh? You think you can always read my intentions,” Semi asks coyly, slipping his fingertips under the hem of Shirabu’s shirt.

“Is your intention to get kicked? Because that’s the road we’re headed down if you keep this up.”

Semi untagles himself and slides up against his headboard, tucking an arm behind his head. “Sorry, just trying to keep things fresh and exciting here.”

“Well, consider tickling officially off our sexual roster,” Shirabu says flatly. He drapes himself across Semi’s lap, cradling his head in his hands. In truth, he’d be fine sitting like this all night; he misses the closeness and intimacy.

Two months ago, their life changed with a phone call; Semi had nailed his interview (ugly tie and all) and landed a position at the firm. He still remembers Semi video chatting with his mother and grandmother, and the tears in their eyes when he told them of his job offer—he’s the first in his family to go into such a profession.

Shirabu couldn’t have been more thrilled.

At first the transition was barely noticeable. Semi left at nine and came home at five, which didn’t matter, because Shirabu had classes and volleyball practice to occupy his days. But then the firm started demanding more time. Nine turned to eight and five turned to six, sometimes seven. Semi was exhausted when he came home, often crashing in Shirabu’s arms, right in the middle of a conversation.

It took weeks for them to figure out how to adapt to the changes. There was a lot of fighting, some empty threats of breaking up, and many a night spent sleeping separately, stewing in frustration. Their relationship was touch-and-go for a few weeks, but with a little work and compromise, they began adapting to the direction life was taking them, rather than fruitlessly trying to maintain the status quo. It also didn’t hurt that Semi asked his supervisor for some work-life balance, and she was surprisingly obliging.

So now they’re here. Things are different now, but they’re stable, and stability is all Shirabu really craves.

Well, maybe not _all_.

“Pay attention to me. We weren’t finished,” he commands, tracing his finger up the seam of Semi’s pajama pants. It’s not typical for him to take charge in the bedroom, but their sex life has been so sporadic, he’s no longer above being outwardly demanding. He shifts from laying on Semi’s lap to stradling it, and Semi meets him halfway, snaking both arms around his waist.

Instead of obliging Shirabu’s desire to move things along, Semi pursues a gentler course of action. He kisses his forehead, then his cheeks, then the tip of his nose, before finally moving to hover over his lips. They sit like that, foreheads pressed together, enjoying the intimate proximity, until Shirabu gets worked up and greedy and kisses Semi hard, knocking him back against the pillows.

“Wait, sit up for a second,” Semi says, prying Shirabu from where he’s lavishing attention to his neck and chest.

Shirabu jerks himself upright, worried that he may have gotten a touch too rough. It happens occasionally, despite his best efforts to stay measured. “Did I hurt you?”  

“Not at all.” The faint bruises on his collarbone and chest say otherwise, but Shirabu chooses to ignore that fact in favor of savoring Semi’s hands on his thighs and the look of rapture on his face. If Shirabu didn’t have a handle on his ego, he’d think he was the Eighth Wonder of the World.

“Shit, look at you,” Semi breathes, continuing his tender ministrations.

Shirabu has never been one for modesty or shame behind closed doors. He tilts his head and ghosts his fingers up his sides in a way he hopes is alluring. “You like what you see?”

Semi scoffs. “You act campy, but I bet your inner narcissist is having a heyday.”

“All that talk, and I didn’t hear a no.”

“What a mouth you have,” Semi says. He closes his eyes and shakes his head in mock distaste. It’s typical for their foreplay to include at least one bout of verbal sparring. “What did I do to deserve you?”

“It’s simple. You hated the same people, places, and things as me,” Shirabu replies with a smirk. Back in high school, their first baby steps towards friendship came in the form of ganging up on others, in lieu of attacking each other. “Or maybe you were an even worse person in a past life than you are now.”

It’s far from the answer Semi was prompting, but he should know better then to expect sap and sentiment. Not everyone can be an incorrigible romantic. Even so, the response seems to inspire _something_ because in one quick motion, Shirabu is on his back, pinned under Semi.

“Fuck, I love you so much,” he growls, leaning down to kiss Shirabu hungrily.

 _Hell yeah! Let’s do this,_ his lizard brain screams, urging him to match Semi’s vigor. But there’s something else there too now, a different impulse, softer, more curious. He’s not sure why or how his subconscious chose to send this thought to the forefront _now_ , yet somehow he knows that he’ll fixate until it’s out in the open.

It’s the impossible question, one he’s found himself puzzling over for months.

Shirabu untangles his hand from Semi’s hair and gazes up at him.

There’s no preface, no warning, no context, just—

“Eita, what’s it like being in love,” he asks.

“Huh?” Semi rolls off Shirabu and props himself up on his side, unfazed and unannoyed by the abrupt change of pace. Sudden diversions aren’t uncommon for their relationship, though they usually come in the form of a squabble, not some lofty inquiry. “Why are you thinking about this now?”

“I’m not sure.” Shirabu sits up, tucking his knees into his chest. Why _is_ he thinking about this now? Semi has been so gratuitous with those words; they could have had this conversation any number of times—and not had it interrupt a moment with such potential.

Semi makes a contemplative sound and brushes his hand over his chin in thought. Instead of answering promptly, it takes almost a minute of brow furrowing and lip pursing to render a conclusion. “I don’t think I have an answer for you. But if you give me some time, it’ll come to me.”

“How can you feel something so strongly and not be able describe it,” Shirabu asks. It’s a trite observation; emotions by their very nature are intangible, tricky to pin down. But he needs to believe that everything in the world is reducible, capable of being minced into its most basic parts.

Anything he can’t understand is a threat.

“Love isn’t so simple,” Semi replies, wagging his index finger.

And maybe that’s why it scares him so much.

**☼☼☼**

_I don't care if Monday's blue_

_Tuesday's gray and Wednesday too_

_Thursday I don't care about you_

_It's Friday I'm in love...I’m in love...I’m in love...I’m in love...I’m in love...I’m in_ _—”_

“Kenjirou, can you go handle that,” Semi calls from the kitchen.

Groaning, Shirabu rolls off the couch as dramatically as possible. He just finished a particularly grueling afternoon practice, so the idea of returning to an upright position feels herculean. He trudges over to the record player and stares down at the rotating platter. “What am I supposed to do,” he asks.

“Turn it off, gently lift the needle, and remove the record.”

Shirabu does as he’s told, holding the record gingerly, cautious not to mar the thin vinyl. Semi’s records are some of his most prized possessions _—_ he’d have to do some _serious_ groveling if he damaged one of them. “Ok, now what?”

This time, Semi emerges from the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel. “Here, give it to me. It probably just needs a dusting.”

Shirabu surrenders the record to Semi, who uses his shirt to wipe it down. He inspects his work in the light, then passes it back. “That should do the trick, do you remember how to put it back on?”

“Yes, of course.” How could he forget the first time Semi taught him to work the record player? They drank too much red wine and made out to The Smiths like the leads in some insufferable indie romance. To be fair, that was over a year ago, when they were deep in the honeymoon stage of their relationship.

Like most healthy, happy couples, they’ve long abandoned the whole clingy, amorous teenagers act ( _“we were making up for lost time,” Semi would argue_ ). Now, Shirabu appreciates the little things: a shoulder to rest on, brushed hands as they stroll through the city, a call just to say “I love you,” and the reassuring feeling that someone out there is thinking of you just as often as you’re thinking of them.

He’s dissolving into these thoughts—and the softness of the couch—when he’s nudged back to reality by Semi’s knee. He languidly gazes up at Semi, who stands above him with a plate in each hand.

“I’m sorry I had to wake you like that but, as you can see, I’m indisposed,” Semi says.

Shirabu rubs his eyes and sits up, leaning most of his body weight against the pillows, his muscles too worn-out to support him.

“Well, I guess this works.” Semi sets a plate with on Shirabu’s lap. It’s an omelette over rice with a side of watermelon, one of his favorite post-workout meals.

He blinks, studying the food. He wants to eat, but his brain is lagging so badly that he can’t seem to will himself to pick up his utensils.

“Am I going to have to feed you? I’ll do it,” Semi says. It’s intended to be teasing, but Shirabu knows he’s also serious as a heart attack. And the way his fingers and arms throb makes the offer seem pretty attractive.

“Will you,” he asks, in a voice barely over a whisper. It’s embarrassing to need like this, despite Semi’s numerous reassurances that he enjoys taking care of him.

Semi raises both eyebrows, not expecting his offer to be accepted. But the look of confusion quickly changes into something warmer, likely to prevent him from becoming self-conscious. “Of course, Kenji. But you’ll need to move closer.”

Shirabu scoots and, true to his word, Semi feeds him small, carefully apportioned bites in between his own. It takes twice as long to eat, and he starts to nod off somewhere at the halfway point, succumbing to pain and exhaustion.

“Do you mind if I stay,” Shirabu manages, head spinning with impending sleep. After all this time he still finds it polite to ask, rather than assume he can stay with Semi overnight.

“Sure, sure,” Semi replies, taking their long discarded plates to the kitchen. “You are aware I’ll always say yes, right?”

“It’s called having manners, Eita. Try it sometime.” Shirabu shakes his head to re-orient himself, then walks the ten-foot marathon to the bedroom.

“I’ll join you soon,” comes Semi’s voice from somewhere behind.

By the time he changes and brushes his teeth, Semi is still nowhere to be found. It’s only after Shirabu summons the energy to get out of bed and check on him that he appears in the doorway. There’s a pinched look on his face, the kind he gets when there’s something big on his mind. It’s not a prelude to anger—nothing has happened that could have possibly upset him—but Shirabu feels troubled regardless.

He doesn’t like unreadable situations.

He watches as Semi strips off his shirt and jeans and opens a drawer to retrieve a pair of sweatpants. He reaches in, pulls out something Shirabu can’t quite see, then freezes completely.

In Semi’s right hand is a pair of _his_ sweatpants, left carelessly in the wrong space. It’s been months since Shirabu began leaving his things, but he’s conscious of ensuring that his clothes and personal items stay within the bounds of his designated drawer or common spaces—he views himself a guest in Semi’s home, and that means scrupulously respecting boundaries.

He opens his mouth to apologize, but Semi is too quick to the draw.

“Move in with me,” he says.

“Eh?” Shirabu sits up, now fully awake and alert. He expected a light scolding, not a proposition.

“You stay here most nights a week, you have at least a quarter of your clothes here, and it would make spending time together a hell of a lot more convenient.”

Shirabu can’t deny the arguments are compelling. And it’s not like this is a novel consideration; the thought of moving in together has crossed his mind many, many times.

“Are you sure,” he presses.

“Honestly,” Semi starts, scratching at the back of his neck. “I had been planning on asking you today, but I kept chickening out. I took the sweatpants as a sign.”

“Chickening out because you weren’t sure this is what you wanted,” Shirabu asks. He’s covering his bases, assuring himself that Semi is confident in the choice he’s making. Moving in with someone isn’t a be-all-end-all decision, but it’s also not the easiest one to go back on.

Semi sits at the edge of the bed, wrapping a hand around Shirabu’s blanket-covered feet. “Not at all. I was more concerned that it would be too much for you.”

“Too much?” Shirabu tries to keep his expression neutral, to avoid showing the hurt on his face. Sure, he hasn’t been the easiest nut to crack. But he’s grown in ways he could never have anticipated; Semi ought to give him some credit. “I’m not the same person I was a year ago. You have to stop walking on eggshells.”

“I know.” Semi looks down and runs his tongue over the front of his teeth. It used to be that his tongue would poke out over his top lip when he was deep in concentration. In the absence of volleyball and pinch serving, the habit shifted into something more subtle. “I just worry if I push too hard, I’ll lose you. Besides, our relationship was fine as is, why change what works?”

 _Because you’re failing if you’re not progressing_ , Shirabu wants to point out. Yes, every relationship has a unique timeline, but complacency is an insidious danger. From his experience, it leads to lack of fulfilment and boredom, which leads to malcontent and discord— the kinds of things that can shred bonds stronger than theirs.

“You’re more at risk of losing me if you can’t trust that I won’t bail at the slightest discomfort.”

Semi nods, processing Shirabu’s words. He didn’t intend them as a threat, it was simple honesty, but if Semi needed to hear them? So be it.

“Alright,” he starts again. There’s fire in his eyes now, reflecting the confident, “take charge” attitude Shirabu adores so much. “I’ll ask this time: would you like to move in with me?”

“Fine, but only because my lease is about up,” Shirabu replies in a bored tone. He yanks up the blanket and flips on his side, snuggling down into the pillow. _His_ pillow.

Semi makes a choked sound. “Really? You’re going to act like we didn’t just make a big decision together?”

“A decision is only as big as you play it up to be, Eita.”

There’s another, smaller sound of disbelief, followed by the rustle of blankets and the creak of the mattress springs. An arm wraps around his waist, and Semi presses up against his back.

“Welcome home, you little brat,” he whispers, kissing the soft skin behind Shirabu’s ear.

 _Home_.

It has a nice ring to it.

☼☼☼

It starts with an argument during a nature documentary...

“Stalagmites rise from the floor, right,” Shirabu asks. He’s knows the answer already, but he’s in the mood to stir up some controversy.

Living together has made them strangely docile _—_ a fact he should be thankful for _,_ given that many couples go through periods of friction as they adjust to sharing space. For them, moving in has been one of the easier milestones their relationship has hit.

Perhaps it’s the fact that neither of them spend much time at home on weekdays, or maybe it’s because, despite their propensity to squabble about trivial things, their strong compatibility and mutual respect keeps things relatively peaceful.

Relatively, being the operative term.

“No. Those are sta-lac-tites,” Semi says, emphasizing each syllable.

“You’re wrong. You obviously weren’t listening very well.” Shirabu flips onto his stomach so he can give Semi the ‘leer of superiority.’

“Oh wow, bold claims from the person who’s been eating chips and texting the entire time.”

...And ends with them on a train to a limestone cavern outside of Tokyo, to settle the score for themselves.

“Would you like to take a walking tour? Or perhaps you’d enjoy learning more about one of our winter spelunking options,” the admissions attendant says.

“The tour is fine.”

“Tell us more about the spelunking.”

The attendant looks at Shirabu, then over at Semi; it’s clear the poor woman doesn’t know who or what to respond to.

“I’m sorry. Please give us a moment,” he says politely, pulling Shirabu off to the side and out of the queue.

And then the fight begins.

“Spelunking? Why does everything we do has to be mildly dangerous,” he hisses. “Is your life that stale? Am I that much of a bore?”

“Why the fuck are you personalizing this, Kenjirou,” Semi says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m offended you would say, let alone _think_ that. You know I’ve been doing this shit long before I met you.”

Shirabu pouts and averts his eyes. Semi is right. It’s easy to lose perspective, to forget that Semi had a _life_ and _interests_ before their relationship began. His comments were over the line, and he knows he ought to apologize.

“C’mon, where’s your sense of adventure,” Semi prods.

Eh, Shirabu will apologize later. For now, he’s got a bone to pick.

“I lost it somewhere in the air when you made me jump out of a fucking plane over Monterey Bay,” he snaps, his breath appearing in the air in a hot puff.

On the last day of their summer trip to California, Kyoutani and Semi colluded and booked a secret parachuting excursion. For Shirabu, it was five minutes and thirty seconds of abject horror. For Semi, it was (allegedly) “ _the best goddamn thing I’ve ever fucking done_ ,” even if he threw up promptly upon touching ground. It boggles Shirabu’s mind how someone so motion sensitive can enjoy activities like dropping out of the sky.

“Oh here we go, bringing that up again. I didn’t _make_ you do anything! You agreed to go with me. You could have easily stayed with Yahaba.”

Shirabu furrows his brow, frustrated. No, he _couldn’t_ have. Or, more accurately, he _wouldn’t_ have.

What Semi doesn’t seem to grasp is that Shirabu will follow him anywhere, even if it leads him off a burning cliff at the edge of the world. His strong desire to make Semi happy paired with his implicit trust that he’ll keep them safe has gotten him into a number of “adventurous” situations he’d never choose for himself.

And while growing with and from your partner is a wonderful aspect of being in a relationship, Shirabu could have gone his whole life without freefalling ten-thousand feet, or whitewater rafting, or backcountry skiing.

“You’re right, Eita. I could have,” he says, voice quiet. “But I didn’t.”

 _I wanted to be with you_.

That seems to do the trick, because Semi’s expression softens. He’s intuitive enough to sense when he’s hit a nerve. He reaches forward to place his hands on Shirabu’s shoulders, rubbing slowly.

“How about that walking tour, then?”

☼

“I could’ve given a better tour blindfolded and gagged,” Shirabu grouses, as they emerge from the cavern and back into the pale sunlight. He takes a deep, dramatic breath, enjoying air that doesn’t reek of must and god-only-knows what else.

Their guide was an older gentleman, who insisted on piling the knowledge amassed in his 25 years of working at the cave into a forty-minute tour. Luckily, one of the first things mentioned was that “stalagmites” rise from the floor and “stalactites” hang from the ceiling.

From Shirabu’s perspective, they could have left right then and there. Proving Semi wrong in a public space was the sole motivation for the trip.

“No one would pay 600 yen to listen to you piss and moan about how ‘gross’ caves are,” he says, tucking a stray piece of hair under his knit hat. “People come here to learn.”

The cave was lit by multicolored lights with classical music echoing in the background. It’s a tourist spot, not a science exhibit. “Right, because you’re the shining example of intelligent commentary. At least I didn’t refer to the formations as ‘cave dicks.’ Real mature, Eita,” Shirabu retorts.

“I call them as I see them.” Semi stops abruptly, thrusting his arm in front of Shirabu’s chest. He’s parked them in front of a signpost, detailing a number of trails around the cave and surrounding area. “Fancy a hike,” he asks.

Normally, the answer would be a resounding “no,” but there’s something invigorating about being out in the fresh air. There’s also the fact that it was a two-hour train ride to get here; Shirabu will be damned if they don’t stay out for at least as long.

“Sure,” he says, “But it better be easy, not that ridiculous mountain summit trail we did on my birthday.”

“Got it.” Semi leans in to scrutinize the board; the route names and distances are smudged out by exposure and neglect. “It looks like the shortest route is to something called ‘chimney.’ I’m not entirely sure what that means.”

Shirabu has a vague memory of the tour guide using the term chimney, but for the life of him, can’t recall the context. Something to do with bats, maybe? He scrunches his nose. No, that doesn’t sound right. “I guess we’ll be surprised,” he says. “Now let’s get moving before I change my mind.”

They walk hand-in-hand through a field of untouched snow and up a small hill (with minimal protests from Shirabu). It’s more exertion than he was hoping for, but the route is as short as promised. Unfortunately, it ends at the top of a plateau, covered in patches of dirty slush, wilted plants, and barren trees. He can’t help but think of a proverb he once read, that the shortest routes lead to unfulfilling ends.

“This is underwhelming,” Shirabu complains, plopping down on a rock. He nudges a pebble with his boot and watches it careen through the dirt.

“Sorry about that.” Semi scratches his head, obviously embarrassed by the outcome. “There’s got to be _something_ up here.”

Shirabu watches as Semi scours the area, looking for the mysterious “chimney” from the sign. He’s just about covered the space of the clearing when there’s an excited “aha” followed by call of “Kenjirou, come look at this!”

He’s standing over a large crack in the ground, it’s too narrow for a person to fall through, but wide enough that he can see down into the pitch-black depths. It whistles hauntingly when the wind blows, giving it an ominous, yet somehow inviting aura. If Shirabu didn’t know better, he’d think it was drawing him in like a magnet.

He turns to Semi, who appears to be captured in the chasm’s aura as well. He’s crouched on the ground, eyes trained on the darkness. Knowing him, he’s probably crafting a way to climb inside.  

“How far do down you think it goes,” Shirabu asks, kneeling next to Semi. The frozen dirt hurts his knees, and he’s forced to sit cross-legged within seconds. The position brings him closer to the opening, and he instinctively backs away, feeling unexplainable chills in his spine.

“Hard to know,” Semi replies, inching a hand towards the closest side of the crevice. His intrepid nature emboldening him, as it always does. “I want to find out, though.”

Shirabu grabs his wrist. He hates to play the fun-police, but he can’t handle Semi getting stuck in this crack in the middle of nowhere. “Use your head, Eita.”

“Oh, like this?” Semi cranes his neck towards the edge, pretending to lower his head inside.

“No, not like that, you ignorant fuck.” Shirabu grabs a stone and hurls it into the darkness. There’s a plink or two as it bumps the wall, followed by silence.

The discovery should be a cue to leave; Semi has the information he wanted. But he’s still as a statue, squinting into the abyss like it contains the secrets of the universe. Unbeknownst to Shirabu, he wasn’t too far off with his assumption.

“I think I have the answer to your question, Kenjirou,” Semi says, after a long pause.

“What question? I’ve asked you any number of questions.” The daylight is starting fade, casting the plateau in eerie shadows. The lower the light, the darker the crevice appears. Shirabu’s skin is prickling; he wants to leave. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Semi looks up, his face streaked with contrasting shade and light, giving him an otherworldly appearance. “When you asked me what it’s like to be in love. I have an answer for you now.”

Shirabu is caught in a crosscurrent; his instincts urge him to flee and his need for closure holds him steady. In truth, he forgot that he had even asked Semi such an odd question, but at the precipice of an actual response, he can’t stray away.

He licks his lips, not realizing how dry his mouth is. “What is it?”

“When you first looked into the chasm did you get a strange feeling? Like it was terrifying but also mesmerizing?”

“And it was pulling you towards it, like you wanted to crawl inside, without seeing what’s at the bottom first?”

“Something like that,” Shirabu agrees.

“That’s what being in love is like, or at least falling in love. It’s nerve-wracking and formidable and goddamn captivating all at once. Imagine falling backwards into the darkness and just...somehow knowing that it’s going to be alright.”

It’s an elegant image, Semi closing his eyes and tipping back into the wide mouth of a chasm. It’s moments like these that his emotional intellect and occasional flair for the poetic merge to create a beautiful result.

But exquisite words are just that: words. What matters most to Shirabu is the application.

“It sounds like you view love as risk,” he says.

“Sure. Most good things in life involve some aspect of risk,” Semi counters.

“And what would you tell someone who’s averse to risk.” Shirabu leans in. Idly, he senses goosebumps on his forearms, but it’s not clear whether it’s from the icy wind or the intense turn this conversation has taken.

“I’d tell them,” Semi starts, brushing Shirabu’s bangs back from his forehead. He slides his gloved hand down the side of Shirabu’s face and uses a finger to lift his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “Love is the greatest risk you can take.”

“Even with me?”

“ _Especially_ , with you.”

**☼☼☼**

**“** So, you’re probably wondering why I brought you here,” Semi says, picking up a roasted potato and popping it into his mouth with a satisfied hum.

“Yes, I am. I’d love to know why we’re having dinner in hell.”

Hell is the balcony of the western-style steakhouse they’re dining at. Semi insisted on outdoor seating, even though the patio faces east, directly into the blazing sunset. Though it’s only mid-March, the angle of the sun makes the seating area uncomfortably warm.

“You could use some color, Kenji. If you get any paler people might start throwing salt at you.” To emphasize his point, he grinds some salt onto his plate, and tosses it in Shirabu’s direction.

“So be it.” Shirabu takes a long, annoyed drink from his cocktail. It’s watered down from sitting untouched, but the light sting of liquor is still present. “I have no qualms with people being afraid of me.”

“No one could be scared of you, not once they realize you’re more apt to taunt them than haunt them,” Semi chides.

Shirabu scowls. “Are you going to tell me the news or not?”

He’s been hyping this dinner for two days now, teasing Shirabu with vague hints of what’s to come. Shirabu has never been one to enjoy surprises, nor is he enticed by promise of a grand reveal. Semi could have told him whatever he needed to while they were brushing their teeth or cooking lunch, and it would have the same impact.

“Well if you’re going to be so snappy about it, maybe I don’t want to tell you,” Semi sniffs, pressing his lips together.

“You have five seconds before I go back to my filet mignon.”

“I got a promotion.”

Shirabu’s fork falls from his hand and clatters onto his plate. “Eita, that’s fantastic. Congratulations.”

Semi sits up a little taller, puffing his chest out with pride. It’s amusing watching him flaunt and pose like a peacock—but Shirabu will let it slide without a comment. He knows how much Semi loves his work, and he can’t bear to burst this bubble with snark.

“Thank you. It feels good to be recognized.”

“Will your responsibilities change,” Shirabu asks, cutting into his filet again.

“Nah, I’ll just get paid more for the work I do.”

“Sounds like a good deal.”

“I actually haven’t accepted the offer yet.” Semi traces his finger along the rim of his glass and he worries with his bottom lip.

“Why the hell not?” Shirabu asks.

“I wanted to talk to you first because…” Semi trails off, looking out at the buildings in the distance. “This promotion requires a transfer to one of the firm's other offices.”

A transfer isn’t so bad. Once Shirabu graduates in May, there won’t be much tying him to Tokyo. He wouldn’t mind spending some time in another region of the country.  

“I’d be open to moving out of the city,” he says.

Semi’s eyes darken. “Kenjirou, it’s an international transfer.”

Ah. That complicates things. Or maybe it doesn’t. Shirabu isn’t sure what to think; he’s lightheaded, and it’s in no relation to the heat. “Where do they want to send you,” he asks.

“You’ll never guess.”

Shirabu sets his utensils down—he has a sneaking suspicion he won’t be needing them anymore—and rests his head on top of his hands. “You’re right, Eita. I will never guess, because you’re going to tell me.”

“San Francisco.”

Shirabu’s mouth drops open. “The San Francisco we visited last summer?”

Semi nods, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “I don’t know of any others, Kenji.”

San Francisco is a spectacular city, full of fond memories from their trip. Hell, they had even acknowledged that it was somewhere they could see themselves living someday. _Someday_ , being the operative term. Shirabu did not expect _someday_ to be less than a year later.

“When would we have to leave,” he asks. The hot coil of nerves developing in his gut protests his continued participation in this conversation, but he perseveres for Semi’s sake.

Semi toys with the button on his cuff. “Well, that’s the thing. They need me to start in mid-May, so we’d have to leave right after graduation.”

Two months. That’s how long Shirabu would have left in Tokyo, two months to say goodbye to the place he’s lived his whole life, to the friends he’s made, to the subtle comfort of familiarity.

On the flip side, two months is also how long he’d have left with Semi if he _didn’t_ go. And the concept, even in theory, makes him weak.

“That’s soon,” he says curtly, keeping his impressions close to the chest.

Semi narrows his eyes, as if the gesture could grant him insight into Shirabu’s mind. When he doesn’t glean anything, he surrenders with a muttered, “Yeah.”

A tense silence falls over them; it’s clear they both need time to regroup. Semi takes a long swig from his beer, and Shirabu uses his knife to push his long abandoned vegetables around the plate. Jazzy piano music wafts from the lounge inside. Seven stories below, a siren wails by and a motorcycle sputters to life. The cicada’s low hum is ever present.

It’s easy to get lost in the noise, particularly when you’re trying to drown out your own thoughts.

Yet Shirabu recognizes that he should be using this time to parse out his preliminary opinions on the move. Whether he wants to join Semi or not, he owes it to their relationship to give it thorough consideration.

Except there’s a part of him, deep in his heart, that already knows the choice he wants to make. Beyond his superficial fears and petty concerns, there’s a simple, honest desire, stronger than anything else he’s ever felt: he wants to go where Semi goes, to be at his side wherever life takes him.

 _This_ is his burning cliff at the edge of the world, and he promised long ago to follow Semi off the edge. Only instead of a sea of fire, the cliff drops straight into California.

There are far worse fates than that.

“Eita,” Shirabu starts. There’s a fragile confidence to his tone; the decision is impulsive in many ways, but he knows it’s for the best. If not for him, then for Semi and, at this point, the value of their wants and needs is equivalent in every way. “I’d like to come with you.”

Semi’s eyes widen. “This isn’t a decision I intended for you to make now,” he says sternly. “We have time and options. You can think it over.”

“We can talk logistics more later, sure. But no matter how long you give me to think about this, I think my answer would be the same.” It’s true, whether he contemplated the decision for five-minutes, five-hours, or five-days, he’d come to the same conclusion. A thousand times over.

“I—” Shirabu exhales, tapping a finger over his mouth. “I want to do this with you, Eita. I’ll admit that it scares the living fuck out of me, but you’ve always pushed me to take more risks...and this is one I think I can handle.”

“Kenjirou—” Semi’s voice cracks, and his mouth clamps shut. There’s a twitch in his throat, a dead giveaway that he’s close to choking up. “Thank you.”

“Don’t go soft on me or I’ll change my mind,” Shirabu teases, reaching out to squeeze Semi’s hand. “And our next apartment better be nicer than the dump you live in.”

“The dump _we_ live in. If I remember correctly, you’ve been voluntarily living in ‘squalor’ with me for...six months now?”

“Not for long, it seems,” Shirabu quips.

The waiter appears to clear their plates, interrupting their conversation. He deposits a dessert menu on the table and loiters until they make a determination. Semi orders a bowl of seasonal sorbet just to get him out of their hair.

“If we’re going to do this, I want to do it right,” Semi says once they’re alone again, “We need to be open with each other throughout the whole process, and talk about our concerns as soon as they come up. No bottling shit up.” He locks eyes with Shirabu, affirming his seriousness.

“Honestly, Eita,” Shirabu starts, “my biggest concern is figuring out how to tell Yahaba without getting my eyes clawed out.”

Semi’s gazes softens, and he leans back in his chair, balancing himself at the tipping point. “Now that’s one thing I _can’t_ help you with.”

☼☼☼

“You’re WHAT?”

“Let’s not make this into a huge deal,” Shirabu pleads. Time is of the essence, if he can’t get Yahaba to calm down soon, things are going to get...unruly. “It’s not like we won’t see each other.”

“Explain to me how the fuck we’re supposed to hang out when you’re going to be...” Yahaba pauses, one finger held in the air. With his other hand, he impressively manages to look something up on his phone. “...5,151 miles away from me.”

“It’s called video-chatting, dipshit. And there’s these amazing new things called airplanes,” Shirabu deadpans, waving his hands in an arc over his head.

That seems to settle Yahaba some, or at least move him closer to acceptance. Even a stubborn brat like him understands that nothing he says or does can change what’s been decided.

“I guess this was bound to happen at some point. I knew Semi would want to get out into the world—and that you’d follow him.”

Shirabu furrows his brow, confused. “He was transferred. This wasn’t a choice he made.”

“I know, I know,” Yahaba backtracks. “But if it wasn’t this, it would be something else. The guy’s got a wandering soul; he couldn’t stay here his whole life.”

“Hm, you’re probably right.”

“So what will you do over there? Are you looking for a job,” Yahaba asks. He’s flipped onto his stomach, propped up on his elbows, legs swinging behind. It’s the infamous interrogation position, one that’s given Shirabu so much trouble over the past few years.

“I’m going back to school, actually,” he says, fidgeting with a loose thread on his sock. “I sent in my application yesterday.”

“Jeez, Shirabu. It’s been what? Three days since you decided to move, and you’ve already applied for a masters program. That’s the most ‘you’ thing you’ve ever done.”

To be fair, the decision happened to coincide with final application deadlines. Thanks to the support of a dedicated professor, he was able to prepare and submit a complete application in 48 hours, including a petition for an expedited acceptance decision. It’s a feat he’ll always remember—as the worst thing he’s ever done in his life.

“It’s a master’s doctorate combination program. Less time, and it opens more doors,” Shirabu explains. He _could_ find a job with his current degree and flawless English skills, but he’s willing to go the extra mile in the interest of abundant future returns.

“Fuck _off_ , you make the rest of us look so shitty,” Yahaba whines. He pounces, holding Shirabu in place with his thighs and using his hands to gently (and annoyingly) slap at his face.

“Don’t attack me, asshole,” Shirabu protests. If this were three years ago Yahaba’s roughhousing would have escalated into a physical fight. Now, he simply grabs Yahaba’s hands, stilling the onslaught. “I haven’t even gotten in yet.”

“Wah, wah, Mr. 4.0 on the Dean’s List every semester,” Yahaba teases, sticking out his tongue. He gives Shirabu one last pat on the face before freeing him from his clutches and returning to his position on his stomach.

“If your goal is to make me miss you, you’re doing an awful job,” Shirabu grumbles. He runs a hand through his hair, then lays it out, palm up, in the space between them.

Yahaba knows what he’s asking for. Wordlessly, he rests his hand over Shirabu’s, interlocking their fingers.

Neither speaks when their hands touch, both recognizing that this marks the beginning of the end for their friendship as they know it. And while they may not have been the most amiable with each other at first, their relationship blossomed into something unique and irreplaceable. If Shirabu believed in soulmates, Yahaba would be one of his (platonically, of course, but no less valuable).

“Even if you don’t miss me, I’ll miss you,” Yahaba admits.

Shirabu squeezes his hand, a gesture to convey what he can’t “ _I feel the same_.”

Yahaba laughs softly and presses his cheek against Shirabu’s shoulder. “You know I love you, right? No amount of distance could change that.”

Shirabu nods. Then surprises himself.

“I love you, too, you insufferable prick.”

Yahaba stares, eyes wide with shock. “Shit, I never thought I’d see the day,” he breathes.

Well shit, at the rate things were going, neither did Shirabu; which means there’s something he needs to do. _Now_.

He stands abruptly, grabbing for his bag with one hand and patting around for his phone with the other. When he retrieves both, he turns, mutters some shoddy excuse, and darts for the door, ignoring the distant sound of Yahaba’s protests.

Racing through campus, he counts his lucky stars that, although he’s slower than the rest of the volleyball team, he’s faster than the average person. There’s a brief flash of clarity where he considers stopping to text or call Semi, but his reeling heart compels him forward.

 _This is it_ , a voice in his head urges, _you won’t fail again_.

In the apartment building, he takes the stairs in twos and flings the door open.

“Eita,” he cries. Not paying attention to trivial things like volume or self-control or whether anyone is actually home. “I love you. I love you!”

Except he should’ve given some thought to that last one, because his declaration is met with a dense, almost palpable silence.

Limbs heavy with dread, he walks from room to room, confirming his fears. The apartment is empty.

“Fuck,” Shirabu says to the still air, and the dust on the tv table, and strange dark spot on the ceiling.

“FUCK!” He yells this time, pressing the heel of his hands over his eyes. His lower lip trembles with misplaced anger. Is it so bad that Semi isn’t here now? Is his love evanescent like an eclipse, fully actualized for a split second before waning again?

No, that’s not it.

But this has happened too many times, near misses by cold feet or cruel coincidence. Sometimes, in his darkest moments, Shirabu wonders how many more times he can roll the boulder to the top of the hill before he stops trying. Is love supposed to feel like a sisyphean task? Maybe he’s just doing it wrong.   

Exhausted, he drops his bag.

Drops his phone.

Then he drops, too.

☼☼☼

“Shirabu Kenjirou, high honors.”

Upon hearing his name, Shirabu inexplicably freezes, unable to will his legs to climb the stairs in front of him.

He’s played volleyball in gyms packed with hundreds of spectators, thousands maybe at university tournaments. And there was immeasurable pressure there, people relying on his highly specialized set of skills. Today, all he has to do is walk less than ten feet—and ideally avoid tripping. It should be easy by comparison but, regardless of the context, he hates attention.

It’s the sound of a quickly muffled airhorn, followed by an unholy screech that gets him moving. He’ll kill Tendou for that later but, for now, he’ll smile for the pictures he knows his and Semi’s mother are taking, grateful for the distraction that prevented him from stalling out. Brushing off nonexistent dust from his suit, he ascends the stairs, bows to the dean, and receives his certificate and graduation gift.

In total, the experience is underwhelming. Then again, he’s never been impressed by pomp and ceremony.

After graduation ends, he visits with Yahaba and Kyoutani before saying a final goodbye to both of them (with promises to video chat often). It’s not the most ideal situation to part with one of his closest friends, but he and Yahaba have spent enough time together over the past two months for his heart to be at ease.

There’s some personal, whispered words exchanged between them, until eventually Kyoutani guides a teary Yahaba towards their families, and Shirabu realizes it’s probably time to find his.

Turns out his group is quite conspicuous when there’s giants like Tendou and Ushijima acting as living landmarks. Preparing himself for the hurricane of energy he’s about to enter, he puts on his best socializing face and heads over the huddle of people in the back of the room.

As if reading his mind, Semi rushes to him first, likely to serve as a barrier from the brunt of the excitement.

“Congratulations, Kenji. I’m so proud of you,” he says, giving Shirabu a brief embrace. Though everyone in their family and social circle knows of their relationship, they’re conscientious of how they interact at larger events like this.

“Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you,” Shirabu replies, brushing his fingers over the back of Semi’s hands.

Semi is about to respond when Tendou shoves his way between them, ruining the first calm moment Shirabu has had all day. Still, it’s a small miracle Tendou waited this long to demand attention.

“I tried to pay tribute to you, twice I might add, and I was rudely censored,” he says.

“You were censored because you brought a fucking airhorn into a graduation ceremony,” Semi scolds, punching Tendou’s arm. “And your screeching was uncalled for. You scared the shit out of my mom.”

Shirabu would venture to guess that he scared the shit out of his parents, too. He makes a mental note to apologize for his exuberant friend later.  

“ _Excuse me_ for supporting my former teammate and mentee on this momentous occasion,” Tendou huffs, sagging his shoulders like he’s burdened by the weight of the world.

“How did you sneak it in here anyway,” Shirabu asks. He should know better than to ask questions he doesn’t want to know the answer to but even he is liable to play the fool every once in a while.

Tendou leers. “Wouldn’t you like to—”

“He hid it in in your graduation gift,” Ushijima explains, gesturing at the colorful bag in Tendou’s left hand.

“Wakatoshi, don’t reveal that. Where’s your sense of mystery,” Tendou whines. Once he’s done grumbling and griping, he passes the gift to Shirabu. “This is for you, from both of us. Mostly me, but also both of us.”

“Thank you Tendou, Ushijima. You didn’t have to buy me anything,” Shirabu says, taking the bag. It’s oddly heavy for being so small, picquing his interest immediately. He sets to work removing the tissue paper when he Tendou grabs his wrist, halting his motions.

“I wouldn’t do that now,” he whispers suggestively. “Open it tonight, and spare us a thought once in a while, yeah?”

And with that, Tendou retreats to Ushijima, linking his arm through his. “I _suppose_ we should let you spend time with your families.”  

“Congratulations again, Shirabu,” Ushijima says. “And best of luck to you two on your new adventure.”

Shirabu can’t help but smile. Sentiment from Ushijima is so rare, hearing it now is like a blessing on their upcoming move.

“What did Tendou tell you when he was whispering,” Semi asks, when the pair is safely out of earshot.

“He said that I shouldn’t open this now, that I should wait until tonight,” Shirabu says, holding the gift up above his head, as if exposing it to the light will reveal the mystery inside.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean,” Semi asks.

Shirabu shrugs. “It’s Tendou, it could mean anything.”

☼

They’re sprawled out on Shirabu’s futon, back in his childhood home. It’s strange to be alone in his bedroom with Semi, and stranger that his parents are allowing him to stay the night. It took months for them to warm up to him, not because of his gender but because, in his mother’s words, “he looks like a punk, and what’s with that hair?”  

They began to change their tune when they realized that Semi had a heart of gold—and his aspirations didn’t hurt either. Upon finding out that he was employed by a major firm, they began asking to see more and more of him. They even gave their enthusiastic support upon learning about their move and offered to host them for their last two nights in Tokyo. It’s superficial, but Shirabu accepts it. He’d rather his parents approve of his relationship for imperfect reasons than none at all.

“Do you want to open it, or should I,” Shirabu asks. He’s referring to Tendou and Ushjima’s gift, unopened and sitting on the nightstand. Originally, the plan was to shove it in the back of the closet or “misplace” it in rush of the move. After some reflection, he realized it would be impolite to ditch it without confirming what’s inside.

“I can do it if you’re that nervous,” Semi offers.

“Alright, go ahead.” Shirabu grabs the bag and passes it over.

He takes it grudgingly, giving Shirabu a judgmental look. “I was hoping you’d choose to open it, given that it was intended for you.”

“Next time, don’t make an offer you won’t follow up on,” Shirabu mocks, nuzzling his head against Semi’s shoulder so he can watch the unwrapping.

Semi glares and angles the gift away, obstructing Shirabu’s view. He rustles through the paper for a few seconds, then gasps and hands the over the bag. “Uh, you should really see this for yourself.”

“If you’re fucking with me, and it’s something weird I swear I’ll—oh.”

Inside is a glass frame, with a photo Shirabu hasn’t seen in years. It’s an “outtake” team picture—and for good reason. Tendou is using one hand to give Reon bunny ears and the other to slap the back of Goshiki’s head. Kawanishi isn’t smiling. Yamagata (for some unfathomable reason) is lifting his shirt. Ushijima looks...normal, but that’s to be expected.

In the far left corner Shirabu spots himself and Semi, lined up together. Semi is leaning in, whispering something in his ear, and he’s turned slightly, looking back, eyes eager with a touch of mischief, waiting to hear what Semi has to say. That kind of amiability wasn’t out of the ordinary for them—at the time the photo was taken, they were long past tearing at each other’s throats.

But the amiability isn’t the point. It’s the fact that amongst the chaos, their focus was on each other. And whether it was as simple as delivering a snarky comment or an omen of their future potential, the camera caught something special, a moment significant only in retrospect.

He’s running his hands over the glass of the frame when his fingers hit something rough. It’s a note, folded so tightly he might have thought it to be a defect had it not dislodged in his hands. The message is brief, written in Tendou’s chicken scratch lettering:

_It’s always been you two. Best wishes._

The lump in his throat renders Shirabu speechless, and he’s consumed with emotions he can’t even begin to grasp. Tendou’s earlier description was an obvious ruse, but this? Nothing could have prepared him for _this_.

His chest tightens, and his vision blurs. The note and frame slip from his grip and fall onto the blankets. Vaguely, he feels a hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles.

Then comes Semi’s voice, tender and earnest, reminding him of what he already knows.  

“Well it has, hasn’t it?”

**☼☼☼**

The universe is stronger than Ushijima’s blessing, because their first night in the U.S. does not go as planned.

“We don’t have to leave today. We can change our tickets, and my parents said we can stay over until you recover,” Shirabu says, scrutinizing Semi carefully.

Late last night, he complained of feeling “off.” This morning, he woke up with a scratchy throat and a dry cough. And while he doesn’t seem to have gotten better or worse through the course of the day, Shirabu worries about the toll traveling might have on Semi’s well-being.

“Recover from what? It’s just my allergies,” Semi insists. “Besides, if we miss this flight, we won’t make it in time for the movers.”

Shirabu narrows his eyes. This is the first time he’s hearing about ‘allergies’, but Semi has a point, delaying their flight would derail their already tight schedule. “Alright,” he concedes, “but please wear the mask I got you while you’re on the plane. We don’t need you starting a global pandemic.”

“Would you relax, drama queen? I’m not sick!”

In an ill-timed punctuation, he descends into a coughing fit, leaving him flushed and panting and Shirabu’s stomach tied in knots. He’s nervous enough for this flight as it is; not because he particularly dislikes flying, but because he’s about to move 5,151 miles from home with a guy he’s been dating for a little over a year and a half. Anyone would be on edge under similar circumstances, right?

Or maybe he’s making things a bigger deal than they need to be; in the grand scheme, they’ve known each other, trusted each other for almost _seven_ years. And he’s already decided there’s no way he could be happy in a long distance relationship, especially considering that, for Semi, this move is permanent until further notice.

Eventually, something would have to give.

Still, it seems like it was just yesterday that Shirabu was so flighty, he couldn’t even stay the night with someone without being crippled by intimacy. To say his life has done a complete three-sixty would be a gross understatement.

He’s interrupted from his reflection by a yank on his sleeve. “Let’s go, Kenjirou, the terminal is that way. We’re supposed to be at the gate forty minutes early.”

At a loss for an excuse to stall more, he’s forced to drop the subject. “Right, of course. Sorry to hold us up.”

The international terminal is a ghost town, with only small pockets of travelers, presumably awaiting other red-eye flights. Shirabu glances at the marquee boards as they pass the various gates: London, departing at 11:55; New York, at 11:30; Honolulu, at 12:10, and finally, San Francisco, at 11:40.

At their gate, Semi takes what Shirabu suspects is _not_ the recommended dose of dramamine, then goes off in search of a “midnight snack,” leaving Shirabu to watch their carry-ons. Alone and bored, he surveys the seating area. There’s less than fifty others, some businessmen, some obvious tourists, and a surprising amount of families. He scowls at a pair of wailing twins and prays that their seats are far, far away.

Within minutes, a female voice announces the first boarding call, and Semi returns shortly after with a cup of fruit and a yogurt parfait. He holds out both options for Shirabu to make a choice. Unsurprisingly, he picks neither. He’s too jittery for food.

“Is it our turn yet,” Semi asks, popping a grape into his mouth. He doesn’t seem to share the same pre-move anxiety. Or, if he does, he’s keeping it under wraps, likely to avoid adding fuel to the fire.

“No, we’re the next group. Right before economy boarding.”

They’re in the middle of the airline seating hierarchy. Though they couldn’t justify the cost of flying first class, Semi’s travel stipend did cover seats in the “business select” section. Shirabu insisted that he buy _those_ tickets, arguing that the extra legroom and free wifi seemed incentive enough to justify the upcharge.

Though, in hindsight, he probably should have been more discerning.

When they arrive at their row, their seats are the same lumpy style as all the others around, with a fractional increase in legroom. When Semi sits, his long legs are cramped against the bulkhead.

“This is bullshit. Fucking airline con artists,” Shirabu grumbles, shoving their bags into an overhead bin.

“No, it’s great. I’m so comfortable,” Semi drawls, looking up at Shirabu with glazed, sleepy eyes.

Shirabu doubts that. “I see that the six dramamine you took have kicked in,” he says wryly.

“Didn’t take six, three tops. Oh, I don’t remember.” As soon as Shirabu settles into the seat, Semi’s head lolls onto his shoulder.

“Don’t drool on me, you creature,” he hisses. “Put on your neck pillow.”

Semi clumsily acquiesces, while Shirabu covers him with a fleece blanket. “Better ‘sleep than puking,” he slurs, not even opening his eyes.

“Yes, better asleep than puking,” Shirabu repeats, giving Semi a kiss on the cheek. If his skin feels a pinch too warm on his lips, Shirabu does his best to ignore it. The plane has already started to reverse out of the gate. For better or worse, they’re in this for the long haul.

“Goodnight, Eita. I’ll see you in San Francisco.”

“G’night, Kenji. Try to get some rest.”

And Semi is out like a light. Shirabu hopes a deep (drug induced) sleep will cure whatever’s ailing him.

The plane taxis down the runway and lifts off the ground in one smooth motion. Shirabu watches take-off out the window, nose pressed against the cool glass, until the lights of Tokyo are replaced by the abyss of the Pacific Ocean.

He slams the window shade down.

The way he sees it, there are two options: he can spend eleven hours stewing in angst, or he can try to be productive.

He opens his laptop and surveys his reading for class. His program may not start for another two weeks, but his professors have already posted a cadre of assignments online. He’s been so caught up in the whirlwind of coordinating the move, that he hasn’t had a chance to get kind of head start that allowed him to skate through university.

He clicks the first document, an essay on critical theory, and gets to work.

It soon becomes evident that eleven hours can pass in the span of a second if you’re less than enthusiastic about your arrival—time is a funny thing like that. And in what feels like the snap of a finger, the pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom and asks passengers to return to their seats for the final descent into San Francisco.

Beside him, Semi snores like a train, completely dead to the world. He hasn’t woken up since take off, with the exception of the times Shirabu forced him to take small, reluctant sips of water or rubbed chapstick on his lips to keep them from getting too dry.

“We’re here,” Shirabu whispers, as the plane docks at the gate. He cautiously pets the top of Semi’s head, not wanting to startle him. From past experience, he can be quite jumpy when woken up.

This time, however, his eyes open sluggishly, and it takes him several minutes to orient himself. He’s especially (and amusingly) confused when Shirabu opens the window, revealing a thick blanket of early morning fog.  

“Good morning, did you manage any sleep,” Semi asks, yawning a final time.

“Maybe a few hours,” Shirabu lies. At one point he may have dozed off against the window, but Semi’s chainsaw snores made sustained rest impossible. “I did all my reading for the first week of classes.”

“That’s the Kenjirou I know and love,” Semi says with a laugh...that turns into a chesty cough. He sniffs a few times, then pats around his seat, as if looking for something. “Do you happen to have any tissue?”

Shirabu grabs a pack from the bag in his lap and passes it to Semi, who blows his nose noisily.

“How charming,” Shirabu deadpans. “Is this what I can expect from you?”

The blowing continues for a few more seconds, then Semi withdraws the tissue, revealing the ruby-red tip of his nose. It would be kind of cute if it weren’t a sign that Semi seems to be getting worse. “No, I’m fine—well, actually I feel like I got hit by a truck. It must be the dramamine hangover.”

Shirabu cocks an eyebrow. “Hmm. Let’s hope so.”

They have a hell of a day ahead of them.

☼

“Holy shit! This place is even nicer than it looked in pictures,” Semi says, dropping his duffle bag on the entryway floor.

It’s a nice surprise for Shirabu, too. From what he can tell, the living room and kitchen combined are almost as large as Semi’s old apartment. And the view is to die for; the panel of floor-to-ceiling picture windows create an unbeatable view of the bay, sparkling with the golden rays of the morning sun.

“Come check out the bedroom, it’s fucking huge,” comes Semi’s voice from deeper in the apartment, but before Shirabu has a chance to follow, there’s a knock at the door.

It takes less than three hours for all of their things to be brought up from the moving truck and arranged to their (Shirabu’s) liking. Their furniture doesn’t quite fill the space, but the apartment looks more like home, and that helps quell the some of the residual nerves that he can’t seem to shake.

After the movers leave, Semi helps unload the kitchen and bathroom boxes, then retreats to their bedroom for a shower and a nap. Though he regained enough spark to power through the chaos of customs and public transit, he’s been wilting ever since their arrival. It was only a matter of time before he crashed.

“How are you doing,” Shirabu asks, running his hand through Semi’s hair. It’s damp from being washed, but it doesn’t mask the light sheen of sweat on his forehead. Shirabu suspects it has something to do with the three different blankets he’s laying under. “There’s a grocery store a few blocks away, would you like me to get you anything?”

Semi wrinkles his nose at the question. “Thanks, but I’m not hungry. And even if I was, my throat hurts too much to eat.”

“Hm, well I’ll pick up some soft food and cough drops then.” Shirabu touches Semi’s cheeks and neck with the back of his hand. Unlike earlier, he’s _definitely_ too warm now. “Do you want me to turn up the heat? That way you can remove that cocoon you’ve got going on.”

“No,” Semi says, tugging the blanket up to his chin. “I’ll freeze my ass off.”

“Ok, this is so fucked. I’m going to call a doctor.”

“Kenjirou, don’t.” Shirabu has to choke back a laugh at the way his name sounds in Semi’s nasally voice. “People get colds. I’ll be fine. I just need more sleep.”

“You literally slept eleven hours on the plane and half the time the movers were here, but go off I guess,” he taunts.

Being sick doesn’t indemnify Semi from acting like an idiot, and he’d have to be on his deathbed to get a free pass from a callout.

Even so, Shirabu decides not to push the issue more than he has to, and with Semi already flipped on his side and dozed off, there’s no other option left but to go shopping. He sets a tissue box and a glass of water on the nightstand, grabs his wallet, and heads out the door.

He picks up the essentials, making sure to include extra sports drinks and soup for Semi. Then he heads to the pharmacy to find cough drops and something for his fever. As he’s comparing cold medicines, something near the prescription pick-up counter catches his eye.

It’s a sign for an in-store clinic, boasting same day appointments with a doctor. Shirabu squints, confused at what he’s seeing—a doctor in a store seems, well, unusual. But when he discovers that the next open appointment is in half-an-hour, he can’t help but think it’s kismet. No reason to look a gift horse in the mouth, not with Semi in such a pitiful state.

“Eita, I’m back,” Shirabu yells, struggling to hold the front door with his free hand. He drops the groceries on the counter and charges towards the bedroom.

When he throws that door open, there’s a weak moan from a pile of blankets in the bed.

“Come on, we’re going to get you checked out,” Shirabu says, peeling back the top layer of Semi’s pile.

“I love you, but fuck off,” Semi says, voice muffled.

Dating someone as stubborn as him was Shirabu’s first mistake. He bites his lip; his next move could either earn Semi’s undying appreciation, or royally piss him off. All things considered, he’d rather see Semi angry than unwell, so he decides to chance it.

“Semi Eita, get your ass up right now,” Shirabu demands, ripping all the blankets back at once.

“What the hell!” There’s an interlude of coughing. “ _That_ was uncalled for. For the millionth time, I’m fine.”

“Stand up then. Show me,” Shirabu says.

His point proves itself. Once upright, Semi stumbles dizzily, grabbing at Shirabu for stability. He lets out a noise that’s a cross between a groan and a sob; it’s unclear whether from pain, defeat, or some sad combination of both.

“It’s possible that I _may_ need to see a doctor,” Semi concedes.

Shirabu sighs. The victory doesn’t seem so sweet when Semi is almost too weak to stand.

“Go get a jacket. I’ll call us a car. ”

☼

“I told you there was nothing to worry about,” Semi says smugly, climbing back into bed.

The doctor performed a surprisingly thorough examination and felt confident that Semi was suffering from a summer flu exacerbated by the stress of travel and mild dehydration. A couple of days in bed and lots of fluids would make him right as rain.

“Yeah, yeah. Lick me.” Shirabu fluffs the pillows behind Semi as he lays down.

“You want that? I’ll do it.”

“I think you’d have to be able to breathe out of your nose first, Eita.”

He’s about to mummify himself in the blankets once more when Shirabu rips them out of his hand.

“Did you not hear the doctor? He said to keep cool until your fever breaks.” Shirabu wants to add that no amount of effort could ever make Semi “cool,” but decides to file that one away for later. Instead, he busies himself with the thermostat.

By the time he figures out how to get the damn thing to work, Semi is sound asleep again.

“I came all this way with you, and you can’t even be bothered to stay awake for ten fucking minutes,” Shirabu grumbles under his breath, kicking a box of clothes on his left. It helps to relieve some of his discontent, so he kicks it again, and again (he stomps on it for good measure, too). By the time the cardboard is destroyed, he’s calmed significantly.

And now there’s the issue of the clothes on the floor. He wasn’t planning on unpacking further tonight, but it’s a fair penalty for his petulance. Sighing, he starts picking up the sweaters and shirts one-by-one and hangs them in the closet.

It turns out that repetitive drone of unpacking and hanging is far more satisfying than a tantrum and, within an hour, he’s cleared all the clothing boxes and organized their closet by season and color.

All the while, Semi snores quietly—comfortable, still, and entirely oblivious to Shirabu’s tempestuous emotions.

Until he isn’t.

“How do I go home,” Semi mumbles.

“Eh?” Shirabu turns from where he’s re-assembling their shoe rack. He stands and tip-toes over to the bed.

Semi’s eyes are still closed, but now they’re clamped shut, like he’s uncomfortable or scared. “Just wanna,” he starts again, “go home.”

“Eita, are you awake,” Shirabu asks. He reaches down to touch Semi’s forehead and recoils when he discovers that his skin is not clammy, not sticky, but straight up drenched with sweat and burning up.

 _Breathe_ , Shirabu tells himself, _Semi needs you to be calm_. People get colds. People get fevers. The doctor wasn’t nervous; he shouldn’t be either. The situation is completely under control. He’ll just grab a towel and—

“Mm’ horses can’t turn left,” Semi grumbles, thrashing onto his side and throwing off the blankets in the process. His new position reveals that he’s sweat through his pajamas and the sheets.

“Holy fuck.” Shirabu freezes up. The situation is far from under control, and he has no fucking clue what to do next. He tries in vain to access his old standbys “logic” and “problem solving” but is too overwhelmed for any form of rationality.

He slaps his hands against his face, once, twice, three times, until the gesture does what its meant to—there’s an obvious solution here, and it’s only twenty-feet away.

Bracing himself, he reaches under Semi and sits him up, then maneuvers him to the side of the bed so his feet touch the floor. This seems to rouse him to some level of awareness, because he stands when Shirabu prompts him and follows him to the bathroom.

“Where’re we goin’,” Semi whines

“Somewhere more comfortable,” Shirabu says. He’s long past composure, and hot tears stream down his cheeks as he eases Semi down into the bathtub and turns on the faucet. Once he confirms that the water is cool enough to lower his body temperature, but warm enough not to shock his system, he slides behind Semi and cradles him in his arms, ensuring that his head stays above water.

He’s not sure how long they sit there like that. His sole reference is the fill of the bathtub, which he drains and replenishes five times before Semi starts to become lucid again. By that point, he’s cried all his tears and resorted to murmuring alternating apologies and affectionate assurances in Semi’s ear. At some point, he may have even said “I love you,” but the words were lost in the pounding of the water.

“Kenjirou?” Semi shifts, using his own strength to sit up. His coloring is still dull but, to Shirabu’s relief, otherwise appears no worse for the wear.

He quickly wipes at his face, removing the last evidence of visible tears. “Eita, how are you doing?”

“I had a strange dream,” Semi says. He props himself against the rim of the tub nonchalantly, like he didn’t just have a fucking near-death experience. “I was walking around Shiratorizawa, but it was completely empty. Except for the horses, they were everywhere.”

Of all the fantastical fever dreams possible, Semi dreamt of high school. Shirabu laughs, the kind of ugly, forced laugh that follows intense stress. “Shiratorizawa had stables.”

“Yes, it did. I remember now.” Semi cocks his head and narrows his eyes.

He’s studying Shirabu, searching for something.

“You’ve been crying,” he says after a long pause. He reaches forward to touch Shirabu’s cheek, and he flinches, pressing himself against the back of the tub.  

“I haven’t,” he insists. Jerking away from Semi tells an opposite story, but he doesn’t need to admit anything out loud.

“You _have_.”  

“Please don’t concern yourself with me,” Shirabu sniffs. There’s a tightness in his throat again, and he swallows thickly, desperate to avoid more tears. “Not when you’re in such bad shape.”

Semi lets out a long exhale and leans his head against his arm. “Shirabu Kenjirou, I could be a breath away from death, and I would _still_ concern myself with you.”

Shirabu blinks, unable to offer a response other than, “Wait until I change the sheets before going to bed.”

Semi smiles; it’s sincere, but there’s a flash of something else, something unreadable in his eyes. Shirabu wonders if it gets tiring not receiving reciprocal affection. Like spiking a ball against a wall—it’s fulfilling, but in a hollow way. Eventually you crave the human aspect. “I was going to make myself a snack anyway. Would you like something?”

Shirabu shakes his head.

He watches silently as Semi rinses his hair under the faucet, then stands up, easing himself out of the tub with a grunt. He wraps himself in one of the fluffy new towels purchased specially for the move and disappears from the bathroom, leaving Shirabu alone.

And for the first time in their 18 months of dating, in an empty tub 5,151 miles from home, he questions the nature of his relationship.

**☼☼☼**

Whatever Shirabu felt in the early hours of that first night was fleeting, because when he wakes up the next morning, wrapped in Semi’s arms, he doesn’t feel a hint of uncertainty.

So, he does what he does best and doesn’t address the matter again: not with Semi, not even in private reflection. And it’s foolish, really, to stifle such serious emotions, because Shirabu of all people should know that a hastily effected dam is a only temporary fix.

Eventually, the water finds its way around, winding and weaving a new path, insidious and unexpected—until it’s right outside of your door.

☼

It starts with a bad day. A day so wretched, it must’ve crawled its way out of the frozen depths of the lowest circle of hell to torment Shirabu.

The long of it is that it was rainy, so the train over to his morning shift at the art gallery was humid as a rainforest. Then, in the afternoon, traffic was so bad, he was late to class, despite leaving almost an hour earlier than necessary to compensate. And to put the cherry on top of the shit sundae, his professor still made him give his oral presentation on the Rococo movement, despite the fact that he was cleary damp, tired, and suffering. He scraped by with an “A” on the assignment, but his grade sheet included a pointed comment reminding him of the importance of in-class decorum.

The short of it is commuting sucks, being wet is miserable, and Shirabu now really, _really_ hates Rococo.

By the time he finally makes it home, he’s poised to snap at the smallest provocation and, knowing Semi, it won’t be long until said provocation comes. Breathing deeply, he does his best to slow his rapid heartbeat and calm his trembling hands before he opens the door. After a few measured inhales, he feels stable enough to enter the apartment.

He’s greeted by the smell of cooking, seafood perhaps, and the sound of classical music from the record player.

“Kenjirou, I’m glad to see you. I was starting to worry, it looks like the storm is picking up,” Semi says, peeping out from the partition between the living room and kitchen. “How are you?”

Shirabu has to clamp his mouth shut to stifle the impulse to start screaming. Semi is in a good mood, he’s cooking what seems to be a complex dinner, and he’s even playing the music Shirabu likes, rather than his typical whiny alt-rock—he can’t in good faith ruin any of that.

“I’m fine,” he says weakly, stripping off his soaked shoes and jacket.

“I’m making cioppino,” Semi calls from the kitchen. “It should be done soon if you’re hungry.”

The idea of food makes Shirabu’s want to puke. He’s practically vibrating with the force of his misplaced anger, making it impossible for him to do anything but stand in the entryway, clasping and unclasping his fists.

There’s some clanging in the kitchen, followed by the hum of the dishwasher turning on. This is the end of the line for Shirabu, he needs to do something other than stand in place like a zombie. Using all of his mental fortitude, he moves to sit stiffly on the couch in the living room, tucking his still quivering hands in his lap.

“Sorry I didn’t come to greet you properly,” Semi says, appearing in the living room. He sits next to Shirabu and runs a hand along his back. “Tell me about your day?”

“I got really wet. Sat in traffic. Was late to class.”  

“Well that sounds shitty, but at least you’re home now?”

“Yes. I am.”

Semi blinks. It’s clear he’s fumbling for a way to ameliorate the situation. “Ah, so, is there anything I can do for you?”

Shirabu makes a noncommittal sound.

“Would you like me to get you a plate of food,” Semi offers. And the offers keep coming, each more fervent than the last.

“Rub your back?”

“Draw up a bath?”

“I could get you a blanket?”

“Do you need some space?”

Shirabu’s mood only seems to decay further with Semi’s gentle treatment. Something inside him tightens and coils, like a snake ready to attack.

“Would it make you feel better to know that I love you?”

There’s a pause.

And then Shirabu strikes.

“Aren’t you getting tired of this game, Eita,” he spits, unable to keep the venom out of his voice. “Constantly throwing your heart at me to get back what? Nothing.”

Semi’s eyes widen—he wasn’t expecting an assault—and then his face falls perfectly placid. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you think it’s strange that you’re constantly saying ‘I love you,’ and I never fucking say it back,” Shirabu asks exasperatedly. His mouth is working faster than his mind, words cascading free of discretion or filter.

“No, not at all.” Semi’s calm expression hasn’t changed and somehow that fact serves to Shirabu even more agitated.

“Oh my god, Eita,” Shirabu yells. He doesn’t care that he’s yelling, it’s feels like the only way to exorcise this wretched energy. “Do you have any self-respect? This is a giant red flag, and I’m waving it in your fucking face!”

Semi scratches his chin, processing Shirabu’s outburst. There’s a beat of silence, then, “if you can look at me in the eye and tell me that you _don’t_ feel the same, we can continue this conversation. Otherwise, there’s nothing for us to talk about.”

The snarling response fizzles on Shirabu’s tongue. Even in his overtired, overstimulated rage, he’s well aware he can’t do that. But this was never about love anyway; it’s obvious Semi understood that from the beginning. “But Eita, other couples—”

“I don’t give a singular flying fuck about what other couples do or say,” Semi interrupts. “We aren’t every other couple, and we don’t fucking need to be. _That’s_ why we work.”

Shirabu huffs.

“Are you happy,” Semi asks.

“Not right now, no,” Shirabu replies, voice cracking. He’s dizzy with the stress of anger, and he can feel himself going into a total shutdown. With great effort, he crawls across the couch and settles between Semi’s legs, resting his head on his chest. He’s aware he probably reeks of humid train and sweat, but decency be damned. Right now, his sole focus is comfort.

“I know you’re not, I could tell from the minute you walked in,” Semi starts softly, “but in general, are you happy?”

“Yes, of course,” Shirabu says, clinging to the soft fabric of Semi’s shirt.

Semi hums in approval, then falls silent, allowing the last remnants of the heated energy to dissipate. He bides the time by gently massaging Shirabu’s scalp.

“Hey, Kenjirou.”

“Hmm?” He lifts his head from where it’s tucked in Semi’s neck. A few minutes of cuddling has settled him to a point where he can’t remember why he was upset in the first place. That’s how these meltdowns end, with a whimper, never a bang.

“Everything you’re doing is nothing short of amazing. But if you keep burning the candle from both ends, you’ll burn down the whole house.”

He doesn’t have to elaborate further.

Getting a doctorate degree is nothing like college, and while Shirabu loves the challenge, he can’t deny his intense schedule has been grinding him down for weeks. At the rate things were going, he should have foreseen that, eventually, he’d crumble to pieces. And when he falls, everything around him is susceptible to becoming collateral damage. “I’m sorry,” he says, “it wasn’t fair to take it out on you.”

“I appreciate it, but no apology necessary. I just want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself.”

Shirabu sniffs once to center himself, then sniffs again at the lingering smell of cooking. His stomach rumbles, reminding him that he hasn’t eaten since early this morning. He’s sure that fact contributed in no small part to this breakdown. “Do you think you might be ready for dinner soon?”

“Sure thing. I thought you’d never ask.” Semi smiles in that shit-eating way that precedes an insult. “But you need a shower first, you smell like a locker room full of wet dogs.”

“What a rude thing to say to someone in distress. You’re going to put three extra crab legs in my bowl.”

“Kenjirou, you can have _all_ the crab legs you want.”

“You’re damn right I can,” he says, retreating down the hall to their bedroom. “I can have anything.”

☼

It’s near midnight and they’re curled together, watching the storm play out from their bed. Bursts of lightning illuminate the sky, and rain splatters against their window. The newscast reported the bad weather as an offshoot of a cyclone near Japan; interestingly, when Shirabu called his parents to check in, his father told him that he “couldn’t see a cloud for miles.”

“If the power goes out we’re driving to Los Angeles,” Shirabu whines, after a particularly loud clap of thunder booms overhead. The bedside lamp flickers for a few seconds, then returns to normal.

“As much as my aunt would love to see us...” Semi says, brushing Shirabu’s bangs from his face. “I think that might be a bit excessive, no?”

“No,” Shirabu says flatly. Like hell he’s going to sit in the dark—even if it is nighttime already. He needs to know that if he _wanted_ to turn the lights on, he _could_.

“Can you be logical for one second? If the weather is severe enough to knock out the power, you can’t think it’s safe to drive in.”

Fair point, but Shirabu isn’t going to roll over and give Semi a clean win.

“Maybe so. But I hope you have a good rain coat, because if the power goes out, _you’re_ going to buy lanterns.”

“Sure, sure,” Semi murmurs, nuzzling against the back of Shirabu’s neck.

The contact should be calming, but it’s not.

He and Semi have unfinished business from earlier. The breakdown may have been a result of poor self-care, but the root issue remains, just as it has for months, trailing him like a shadow. Maybe that’s why he’s so jumpy, so willing to get into a car and drive into the darkness. Sitting in bed, pretending like nothing is wrong, is excruciating.

He wants them to fight. No, he _needs_ them to fight. He needs to feel like Semi cares, to be told that something is wrong with him for not being able to verbally reciprocate his feelings.

“Eita, can I ask you something.” He should flip around to make eye contact, but he doesn’t want to see Semi’s face when he realizes that he is once again prodding at an established non-issue.

“Go ahead.”

“Does it really not bother you that I haven’t said ‘I love you’ yet?”

At that, Semi rolls Shirabu over so that they’re facing each other. “When I said no, I meant it, Kenjirou,” he says firmly.

“But why,” Shirabu presses. “I need to understand why you don’t care.”

There’s a pause, and he worries that he’s pushed Semi too far. His patience is vast, but not limitless—and Shirabu has a tendency to challenge boundaries. A few, tense seconds pass before Semi reaches forward to cradle Shirabu’s face in his hands.

“I don’t care what you have or haven’t said,” Semi starts. “Because I already know how you feel about me.”

Shirabu shakes his head out of his grip. Semi may have learned to read him well over the course of their relationship, but you can’t make assumptions on something as serious as love, can you?  

“How? How could you _possibly_ know that,” he asks.  

Semi sighs and cocks his head as if to say _are you really going to make me explain this_? But of course he acquiesces, because he always does. He’s never judged Shirabu for the way he’s clueless about matters of the heart.

“Think of it this way,” Semi explains, voice softening as he speaks. “I show you that I love you by telling you. You tell me that you love me by showing me. Neither way is better or worse, just different.”

Semi has a way of making things seem so simple, reducing the complex emotions rattling around in Shirabu’s brain into concepts he can work with, rather than fear. Normally, this is the point of closure.

Tonight, he isn’t satisfied.

“Tell me how I show you,” he demands. The back of his neck prickles as heat rises from his chest to his cheeks.

“Kenjirou there’s no way I could list everything.” Semi pauses to brush a lock of hair from his face. It’s a bold move considering his exalted state, but Semi has never been one to shy away from danger. “You make me _feel_ loved, and that’s more than enough for me.”

How sweet. But that still doesn’t cut it.

“Well, it’s not enough for _me_ ,” Shirabu says. The words are disproportionately forceful, startling both him and Semi. He rises to his knees, jamming a finger into Semi’s chest with one hand, gripping his shirt with the other. “Do you know how goddamn frustrating it’s been? Sitting like a fucking melon while you pour your heart out. Freezing up every time I want to tell you that I love you? It’s all so fucking—UGH.”

Semi raises an eyebrow, and the right side of his mouth tics up.

“Don’t you dare mock me,” Shirabu warns. He’s certain that infuriation is pouring off of him in waves; what’s less certain is why Semi is acting so cavalier about it.

“I’m not, I promise.” He lifts his hands over his chest in surrender. “But I’d like to point out that you just solved your own problem.”

“What?”

“Think about that last sentence there,” Semi says. He’s _beaming_ now, all teeth and jubilation.

Shirabu recounts his words and—

Oh.

He rests back on his heels, letting out long, weary sigh. Of all the possible resolutions, it had to be this one. Their relationship may be built on respect, but many “moments of clarity” have resulted from conflict. Sometimes the easiest way to make your heart talk is by backing it into a corner—and beating it into action.

“That didn’t count. I want a do over,” Shirabu whines, flopping down on his back and draping his arms over his eyes. “Forget you heard anything.”

Semi lays down beside him, pressing a kiss to his open palm. “Forget I heard what?”

**☼☼☼**

“Faster, Eita.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Semi hits the gas and the engine roars, jolting the car forward and throwing Shirabu back against the faux leather seat.  

His head hits the headrest and he lets out a pleased sigh, which bubbles into a excited laugh. He may not be a thrillseeker like Semi, but there’s something incredibly liberating about speeding down an empty highway in a convertible.

“Wow, you’re really enjoying this, huh,” Semi says gently, sliding his hand off the stick shift to grip Shirabu’s thigh. “I love seeing you so happy.”

“Stop being mawkish and focus on the road,” Shirabu says, deflecting Semi’s sappiness. “If we don’t make it to the viewpoint in five minutes, we’re going to miss it.”

“I don’t know what that word means, so I’m not going to stop,” Semi retorts. Though he’s wearing sunglasses, Shirabu can sense that he’s rolling his eyes.

“It means you’re being mushy and gross,” Shirabu explains. “Now, speed the fuck up.”

“Yeah, yeah. I got it. But if we get pulled over, you’re paying the ticket.”

They make it to the viewpoint without incident, just in time for the sun to dip low over the horizon, painting the ocean in brilliant oranges, pinks, and golds. Shirabu watches in awe—he never got to see such brilliant sunsets back in Tokyo—disregarding the fact that he’s feeling the same heart-swelling sentimentality that he chided Semi for minutes ago.

“We should really do this more often,” Semi says, wrapping an arm around Shirabu’s shoulders.

“Yeah, we really should,” Shirabu agrees, snuggling into Semi’s side. “Maybe we can get a convertible of our own someday.”

Semi perks up at the suggestion. “You’d be ok with that? I bet we could afford a nice one in another year or two.”

“What makes you think I’ll be with you in another year,” Shirabu teases, knowing full well there’s not a single person he’d rather spend his time with. The way he sees it, he’d rather be alone than with anyone else.

“Call it a hunch.”

Shirabu snorts and rests his head back on Semi’s shoulder, allowing himself to be fully immersed in the moment: the sound of the waves crashing on the beach below, the smell of crisp coastal air, and the ever-shifting panorama of peaches and reds, which give way the purples and blues of twilight.

It’s the perfect night for a confession—or something close to it. A dear friend once told him that change occurs in baby steps, and Shirabu is more than ready to reciprocate, but he can’t initiate. Not tonight, but he’ll get there soon enough.

So he waits until the clouds have faded to indigo, and the sharp chill of the October air nips at the tip of his nose, surely turning it pink. He waits until he and Semi have talked about anything and everything, from the mundane of their weeks to the sensation of the constellations dotting the sky.

Because as sure as the tides and the moon rising over the sea, so too will this dance reach its inexorable end. It’s a moment heavy with anticipation: one year, five months in the making.

Semi turns, and a crackle of electricity runs between them.

“I love you,” he says simply, offering his heart in earnest, just as he always does.

And for the first time, witnessed by the sand, and stars, and limitless bounds of the ocean, Shirabu offers his own in return...

**____________________**

“I love you, too,” Shirabu says, closing the cover on his tablet and setting it on the nightstand. Semi hums in response but makes no other acknowledgement—once he gets his nightly “ _I love you_ ,” he’s as good as asleep. Shirabu understands that.

He carefully slides out of bed and pads over to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmer and shine, even through the blur of the marine fog that’s starting to roll in. If he doesn’t focus too hard, he could be back home, back in Tokyo. Then he hears the soft sound of Semi’s breathing, and the thought seems traitorous.

There’s nowhere else on the planet that could feel more like home than here.

He draws back the curtains, making sure to completely drown out the light _._ Tomorrow is a big day; they both need lots of rest. After all, you only get to celebrate your two-year anniversary once.

When he’s done fastening the curtains, he returns to bed and cuddles up to Semi’s side. Though he appears to be out cold, he instinctively wraps an arm around Shirabu, pulling him in close, just the way he likes. Even in sleep, Semi knows his needs like his own.

“G‘night, Kenji,” he murmurs, brushing a clumsy kiss against his hair. “See you in the morning.”

Shirabu smiles _,_ feeling himself start to nod off, too. He turns onto his side, nuzzling into the familiar warmth of Semi’s neck.

“I’ll look forward to it.”

**Author's Note:**

> a few things I wanna say here:  
> 1\. take a fucking second and imagine shirabu skydiving, like shit, he loves Semi ~that much  
> 2\. bruh  
> 3\. i’m dead  
> 4\. thank you for reading this schlep/emotional snake pit/dramatic monstrosity. swimming in the flood’s timeline has officially come to a close (or has it?)
> 
>  
> 
> Take care of yourself and others, and I hope to see you next time !


End file.
